


I’ve Been Chasing Grace

by imachar



Series: Just Give Me One Good Year [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Brief reference to past non-con/dub-con, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has had a really bad week, John’s hasn’t been a picnic either, between them they find a way to make it all better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’ve Been Chasing Grace

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** If you recognize it, it’s not mine.  
>  **Beta:** The wonderful [](http://zauzat.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://zauzat.livejournal.com/)**zauzat** who got me into this fandom in the first place and who forces me to up my game every time. I should also mention my bff in real life who will go nameless as she’s not online, but spent a long lunch talking through my version of Sherlock with me…thanks to you both.
> 
>  **A/N** This is the second in what will be at least a four part John/Lestrade series. The first **[Same Old Skies of Grey](http://imachar.livejournal.com/35516.html)** is Lestrade only and sets up his post-divorce situation, so while it’s not essential to read before this one, it will make some elements of this a little more comprehensible. 
> 
> **A/N II** John’s helpful line in philosophy comes, of course, from the Talmud, not that he necessarily knows that.

****

[Pint?]

The single syllable stares accusingly up at John Watson from the screen of his mobile and he leans back in his chair with a groan. He’s not up for this right now. After four hellish days of being cooped up in the flat with a bored, hyper-active, nicotine-deprived Sherlock he’s finally got the place to himself; Molly having tempted Sherlock away with the promise of the chance to examine the lungs of several squatters who had died in a house fire in Clerkenwell. Now it’s well after 21:00, he’s just finished half an order of a very good lamb shakuti from the _Rajdoot_ on Paddington Road and he’s about to settle in for a replay of today’s Toulon/La Rochelle rugby match on SkySports. The last thing he wants is to drag himself down to _The Churchill_ , four tube stations away, and deal with a bunch of wankers watching football on a wet Wednesday night.

Still, he feels vaguely guilty at the thought of turning Lestrade down tonight. He knows that Greg’s team is coming off a desperately awful case – if far too pedestrian for Sherlock – involving missing adolescents, a double murder and the exposure of part of a sex-trafficking operation. The case had broken early this morning with the discovery of a memory stick laden with video evidence, sealed and wrapped and hidden in the toilet cistern of a toxic waste dump of a flat in Catford. When Greg had called around lunchtime to postpone their usual Wednesday night pub outing, there had been a desolate quality to his voice as he’d explained that he had at least eight more hours of video evidence to process and he probably wasn’t going to be in the mood for beer and football by the end of it.

Evidently he’s changed his mind and John can’t say he’s surprised. After the Sherlock-precipitated implosion of Greg’s already fragile marriage just after Christmas, he’d moved out of the family terrace-end in Kensal Rise and John had helped him shift his boxes of clothes and books and music to a cheerless – if mortgage free, bought right before the property market took off in the late-80s – flat in Lewisham that, along with a 1976 Triumph Trident 750 and a seriously over-powered music system were currently his only trophies from the on-going legal battlefield of his disintegrating family life. The flat has minimal furniture, a 1978 Radio Rentals telly that had once belonged to Greg’s parents, and no curtains; given going home to that as the alternative, John can see why a couple of pints of Fuller’s ESB and a round of darts would seem like an attractive option even after eleven hours of watching graphically awful sex and violence.

Setting the phone on the arm of his chair for a moment, John rubs his hands briskly over his face and wills away the lingering headache that had been generated by three hours of atonal screeching as Sherlock had exorcised some of his boredom by torturing his violin, and by extension, John. Then, decision made, he picks the phone back up and types,

[Baker st? Left-over indian and beer?]

That way at least he doesn’t have to leave the flat. He’s dog tired, which is annoying given that he hasn’t actually been doing anything except babysitting Sherlock for the last few days, but Greg is his friend. What had started out as a sort of Sherlock-handlers’ support group has turned to genuine fellowship over the last year; a bond forged in beer and football and mutual commiseration in the face of disastrous personal relationships. So the least John can do this evening is offer him some left over curry and a share of the stash of cans in the cupboard under the sink.

The reply is virtually instantaneous.

[Going to Westminster – circle line dodgy]

[Ok – will leave the door unlocked]

John winces at the thought of Greg having to walk the extra couple of hundred yards to pick up the Jubilee line at Westminster and hopes he’s got an umbrella on him. It’s been raining on and off – mostly on – for the last week and the temperature has dropped to near freezing tonight, with a brisk wind whipping the rain against the windows. Returning his phone to the back pocket of his jeans John levers himself out of his comfy chair by the hearth and leans in to turn up the gas on the fire, before heading downstairs to unfasten the front door lock and check on Mrs Hudson, who rewards his concern with a heaping plate of sliced and buttered gingerbread.

“There you go, dear. Make sure you leave a couple of slices for that nice detective.”

John finds a spot for the plate of gingerbread on the least toxic corner of the kitchen table – nestled between an Erlenmeyer flask full of something blue and a rack of six test tubes filled with cotton fibres soaking in various concentrations of hydro-bromic acid – before he braves the fridge. He wilfully ignores the Tupperware full of dead mice on the bottom shelf, and pulls out the remains of the Indian food, spooning shakuti and rice out of the foil container and into something that can be safely microwaved, wrapping the left over naan in a clean tea-towel and setting everything on the one other clear corner of the kitchen table. He’s just checking that there isn’t anything unidentifiable in the microwave when he feels the firm shunt of the front door closing and hears the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs.

John opens the side door between the kitchen and the landing as Greg pauses to shrug out of his mac and toe off his wet shoes and he frowns at the way Greg is shivering slightly, his suit jacket clearly damp under the outer coat, hair plastered to his head in an uncharacteristically sleek mat.

“What happened to your umbrella?”

Greg manages a wry grin and rubs both hands through his hair until it’s back to its usual spiky disarray and John’s gratified that he’s not looking nearly as dreadful as he had expected. A little paler than he should be, with dark smudges under his eyes that speak to a week of too much caffeine – and trans-dermally delivered nicotine – and not nearly enough sleep, but still able to smile, his eyes lit with that genuine warmth that always gives John a little thrill of _something_ ; anticipation, excitement, arousal? He’s not sure, he just knows he’s avoided examining it too closely up to this point, but now Greg is answering the question and John smiles back at the exasperation in his voice.

“Fucking Armitage nicked it at the crime scene this morning.”

John shakes his head and takes the coat, draping it over a kitchen chair to dry and notices that the damp goes all the way through to Greg’s suit jacket. He holds out a hand, “Jacket too, come on you’re soaked.”

The jacket ends up over the back of another chair and John winces at the dark patches on the shoulders and chest of Greg’s pale blue window-pane check M&S shirt and, apparently having a moment of Sherlock-like prescience, Greg scowls at him slightly. “No, I’m keeping the shirt, thanks very much, it’s not that wet.”

John’s not convinced but he hands Greg a can of ESB and waves him towards the living room. “Well, go sit by the fire then and warm up. I’ll heat up the curry.”

“Cheers, mate.” Greg tugs on the ring-pull of the black and blue can and takes a slow, deep draught before he turns to make his way into the living room, pausing as a long shiver trembles all the way through his frame and makes him hunch slightly as he steps through the open sliding doors. John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head at the sheer stubborn self-sufficiency of the man in front of him.

“You know, you look freezing. Greg, why don’t you go have a bath before you settle down to eat?”

John gets a wary raise of an eyebrow in response and he’s not sure if he’s overstepping a line with his offer. Greg’s a frequent enough visitor, but as friendly as they are it’s not like he treats Baker Street as a second home, he’s only slept here once, a few weeks ago when they’d gone out after his first meeting with his solicitor about the divorce. By the time they were sufficiently rat-arsed that Greg could no longer feel the deep ache that came from knowing he’d never live in the same house as his boys again, all his public transport options had evaporated and he’d been left with the unenviable task of trying to find a cabbie that would take him all the way to Lewisham at well after midnight. He hadn’t even tried, gratefully accepting John’s slightly slurred invitation to sleep on the settee, and John had laughed the next day when Greg had admitted that the combination of a stomach churning hangover and dealing with Sherlock over toast and tea first thing in the morning would serve as a timely reminder not to do it again any time soon.

“A bath? I’m not a sodding five-year-old, y’know?”

“Yeah, not Sherlock, but I’d noticed that. What you _are_ is chilled to the bone, knackered and likely to get really sick if you don’t warm up soon.” John had spent a week as a locum at the Marylebone Health Centre earlier in the month and he’s all too aware of the ugly upper respiratory infection that’s been cutting a swathe through the clerical population of the capital. He’s pretty sure that Greg’s run down enough right now to be a prime candidate for it so he pushes a little more than he might under more benign circumstances. “Really Greg, you don't need to get sick right now. Go on, the bath in there is huge, go warm up.”

John watches Greg’s slightly stubborn resistance to being looked after crumble in the face of another frame-shuddering shiver and he has to work hard to hide a smile as the DI turns and walks back into the kitchen taking a last long drag from the beer before dropping the can onto a rare clear spot on the counter next to the cooker.

“Alright, alright, but I’m really going to want food and another beer when I’m done.”

His voice comes out as a growl but there’s no heat in it, and he manages a small smirk as John snarks back, “The sooner you stop whinging, the sooner you can come back and eat.”

He points Greg down the hall to the bathroom and instructs, “You’ll find a clean towel in the airing cupboard and there’s a bottle of Radox under the sink. I’ll go find you some dry clothes.”

Finding clothes that’ll fit Greg is a little more of a challenge than John anticipates. He doesn’t even bother going up to his own bedroom, Greg has four inches and at least two stone on him, so he goes foraging in Sherlock’s bedroom instead. The bottom of his chest of drawers yields a pair of pyjama bottoms, flannelette with a draw-string waist, clearly – and unsurprisingly – never worn. But he has to go down to Mrs Hudson in search of a top, coming back up with an old, soft All Blacks shirt that had once belonged to the late Mr Hudson, and has been washed enough that it’s now more charcoal than black, the white embroidered fern leaf on the left breast reduced to a stem and a couple of stray fronds.

Passing back through the kitchen, John filches a slice of gingerbread before heading down the hall to the bathroom and knocking lightly on the door. He gets a soft grunt in response, and opens the door to find Greg stretched out in the oversized Victorian bath that John thinks is probably original to the building. The water is only a few inches from the lip, steaming hot and teal-green from the Radox muscle-soak, which has supplied enough bubbles that all John can see of Greg are the bits that are clear of the water.

And he thinks that's maybe a very good thing, because the bits he _can_ see are disconcertingly attractive. John’s never seen Greg anything less than fully dressed; like Mycroft he wears his layers as armour – coat, suit jacket, shirt, vest – a shield that helps to keep his daily exposure to the pain and degradation and outright evil that come with his job from becoming overwhelming. Even the day John had helped him move, right before New Year, it had been freezing and Greg had been shrouded in a heavy coat, and a rugby shirt over a long-sleeved t-shirt.

It’s unsettling now to see the man beneath all the layers; well, less unsettling and more really, really, _really_ fucking arousing if John’s going to be completely honest with himself. He’s not entirely blind-sided by the thought that Greg naked is something that interests him, John may typically date women, but there have been men over the years. Now and then some indefinable combination of physical and emotional traits that have drawn him into the kind of short-lived tryst that has been all that temperament and career have allowed in the last decade. And it’s not like he’s unaware that Greg’s attractive on a whole variety of levels; clever and funny and honest – and unbelievably long-suffering – and blessed with looks that are apparently only enhanced with age.

With the back of his head resting on the lip of the bath Greg grins lazily at John.

“Alright, this was a good idea.” He sounds comfortably relaxed and the contented warmth in his voice makes John smile.

“Glad it’s helping.” John drapes the clothes over the free rungs of the electric towel rack and turns it on, trying valiantly to avoid looking at the expanse of naked DI that’s sprawled in the bath. Really, _really_ trying not to look at the way Greg’s biceps and triceps flex as he stretches, the way a couple of drops of water track a meandering path down his throat as he arches slightly against the back of the tub and displays a little more chest for John’s viewing pleasure. John feels that familiar little shiver of raw lust that he always gets when his body makes the shift from _I quite like your company_ to _I’d quite like to see you naked_ and he’s pretty sure he should be leaving the bathroom _right now_ before mind follows body and he finds himself in _I’d quite like to fuck you into the mattress_ territory.

“Can you hand ‘s the shower gel?” Greg gestures towards the shelf at the other end of the bath. It’s littered with safety razors, shaving cream, a couple of bars of well-used soap and two bottles of shower gel; Sherlock’s very expensive Jo Malone 154 and John’s much more prosaic Tesco generic. John lifts both of them, offering first his own and then the Jo Malone and Greg grins, that stunningly beautiful, full-on mischievous smile that does nothing for John’s determination to keep this platonic.

“Give us the Jo Malone, the tosser still owes me for Christmas.”

John decides not to acknowledge the passing reference to Greg’s imploded marriage and hands over the bottle of Jo Malone with a grin. For all Sherlock’s derision about his body being nothing more than _transport_ , he has a fondness for certain small luxuries and the 50 quid a bottle 154 is one of them.

“Okay, take your time. I’ll go catch the end of the football.”

“Who’s playing?”

“Liverpool and Fulham – league game.”

John’s about to commiserate with Greg over Millwall’s appalling performance the previous weekend when he finds himself just a little too interested in watching the way Greg is working the shower gel up along one extended arm and he turns away with a huffed out breath, abandoning any attempt at prolonging the conversation and hoping that his sudden flush can be attributed to the steam in the bathroom.

“Right, yes… well then…see you when you’re done.”

Content with Liverpool’s unsurprising 1-0 defeat of Fulham, John has turned the telly off and is leaning against the kitchen table perusing the sports pages of today’s _Independent_ when Greg reappears, still rubbing a towel through his hair, the pyjama bottoms clinging a little snugly and the rugby top riding up to provide an enticing view of a couple of inches of stomach, bisected by a line of dark, damp hair.

For a moment John is riveted by that dark trail disappearing into the low-slung pyjamas and by the time he pulls himself together he finds himself on the receiving end of a slightly arch look from Greg who has finished drying his hair. There’s a speculative interest lurking behind those dark eyes and John can _feel_ the shift in the air, the slightest frisson of electric tension that’s only ever apparent when two people are beginning to acknowledge that sex between them is a very real possibility.

But then the microwave pings and the moment is lost, the tension dissipating as Greg walks into the kitchen with a brief pause to chuck the towel back in the general direction of the bathroom as John retrieves the plate of leftovers.

“Anything I should be wary of in the fridge?” Greg is reaching for the handle and he looks like he’s about to take his life in his hands, which is entirely possible when one opens the fridge door in this flat, but it makes John laugh. “Stay away from the Tupperware on the bottom shelf, other than that it’s safe. Why, what are you looking for?”

“Chutney?”

“Oh, yes, maybe…try the top shelf.”

Greg comes up with both chutney and lime pickle – although he hands the jar of pickle over to John for a second opinion on whether it’s actually edible – and then loads up his plate with left-overs as John makes himself a snack of naan, chutney, pickle and some of the sauce from the shakuti, careful to leave the meat for Greg. Carrying a fresh can of ESB for each of them John follows Greg into the living room and settles into his chair, watching as Greg sits down carefully and then balances his plate on his knees. He pauses for a moment, treating John to one of those rare, sweet, engaging smiles; warm and earnest and, if John’s not totally fooling himself – and he’s pretty sure he’s not – laced with just the barest promise of seductive interest.

“Thanks for this, mate.” And then he rests his elbows on the arms of the chair and leans forward to inhale the fragrant steam rising off his plate.

“Christ, I’m hungry.”

John laughs, a soft little grunt of amusement, and shakes his head. “When’d you last eat? No, don’t tell me, you’re as bad as Sherlock – you haven’t eaten all day have you?”

Greg shrugs as he uses a generous piece of naan to scoop up rice and meat and sauce and then pauses before he lifts it to his mouth.

“Sal went on a run to Pizza Express about lunch time, but then we turned the footage back on and my appetite went to shite.” He looks back down and closes his eyes for a moment, as if he’s trying to will away the images of the day before his appetite vanishes once again and John winces, wishing there was something he could do to help.

“It was bad?”

“Bad enough.” Greg licks sauce off his fingers – something John finds ridiculously erotic under the circumstances – and then worries the tip of his thumb nail for a moment before he goes on “Oh, no little kids. Christ, if there’d been little kids involved I’d be in my own flat by now, sitting in the dark with a bottle of Bells. No, not that bad, but bad enough.”

“These cases really get to you, don’t they?”

“Yeah, they do.” Greg pauses, brow furrowed slightly as he tilts his head at John and sighs. “I’ll talk about it after, right? I’d just really like to get through dinner first.”

“Yeah, right, sure…sorry.”

Greg waves off the apology. “Nah, s’alright. I just need food and beer and maybe a couple of paracetamol, yeah?”

John could use a few of those himself and he lays aside his beer and goes to forage through the cupboard next to the sink where they keep the medical supplies that they need on a regular basis. There’s an economy size bottle of generics from Boots hidden at the back of the cupboard and he shakes out a couple of tablets for himself and three for Greg, rewarded with a grateful, “Cheers, John,” when he hands them over.

When he’s settled again, he goes back to the paper for a while, giving Greg a little peace to eat. After long minutes of silence he’s lost in a story about the on going newspaper phone hacking scandal that just cost the PM’s communications director his job when he feels a warm hand rub teasingly through his hair. Looking up he finds Greg on his way to the kitchen to drop his plate in the sink and John gives the paper a shake before folding it and laying it aside. “You good?”

Greg nods, “Yeah,” and drops back down into the leather chair, tilting his head and giving John one of those carefully assessing looks he’s so good at. “You really want to spend your evening listening to my problems? I’m sure you’ve got a match saved that we could watch.”

“Nah, you talk me down when I’m ready to kill Sherlock, the least I can do is hear you out when the job’s getting to you.” And John makes himself comfortable, bare feet pulled up onto his chair under his bum, one elbow on the armrest, cheek nestled on his hand and he waits in silence for Greg to speak.

“Okay, yeah…okay.” It’s clear from his slightly tentative stutter and the way he’s determinedly contemplating the can of ESB that Greg’s gathering his thoughts, preparing to sketch out exactly why this case has insinuated itself so deeply under his skin.

“It’s not just this case.” He has one hand on the arm of his chair, fingers absently tapping a rhythm on the leather. “You know how I started out, right? As a PC out of Deptford.”

John nods, Sherlock’s been pretty good at sketching out “Lestrade’s backstory” as he calls it, little comments and asides that sometimes lead to longer explanations, but often as not, leave John trying to fill in the blanks on his own. The outlining of Greg’s reasons for going into the Met at nineteen had warranted a whole 90 seconds of Sherlock’s attention, although John could have lived without the subsequent details of his sexual history in the years before he met, and married, Alison.

“Yeah, well I went into CID pretty quickly and one of the first cases I was on, well, it was like this one, but I ended up a lot closer to the action.” He smiles tightly and shrugs, silently giving John an out if he wants to shy away from the details. John almost laughs at that, Greg should know by now that’s not his style and he makes a “carry on” gesture with his beer can and asks, “So what happened?”

Greg takes a breath and now he’s talking about stuff John’s never heard before, whether it’s because this is something Sherlock has deleted, or just hasn’t thought worth passing along, and even from the outset it’s a disturbing story. Greg at twenty-three, just out of his two-year CID probationary period and a fully-fledged DC in the Lewisham main station, working as part of a team investigating a series of rent-boy disappearances.

“We didn’t have MITs in those days, just Area Major Incident Pools, and they were pretty new. The DCI in charge,” Greg pauses, takes a breath and there’s a set to his jaw that telegraphs exactly what he’s about to say, “Derek Bailey – fucking wanker – decided he didn’t want anyone on the outside getting credit for the collar, so he kept it as an in-house operation.” He pauses again, rolls the beer can in his hands, takes a brief sip and runs one hand through his hair before confessing. “They needed someone to go undercover, someone who could pass as underage.”

John can’t quite hide his reaction, a slightly surprised widening of his eyes, as Greg hesitates, and John raises an eyebrow knowing, in the wry smile he gets back, that Greg understands the question he’s asking. John is old enough to remember when “underage” had very different meanings, depending on whom you were planning on fucking.

“Yeah, they were going for _really_ underage, at least for 1986. The boys that had gone missing were all between fifteen and eighteen.”

John winces; in 1986 the age of consent for homosexual sex had been 21. He’d personally been guilty of quite a few breaches of the law before it was reduced, albeit reluctantly, by the incumbent Tories to 18 in 1994 and finally, once Labour was in power, all the way to 16 in 2002.

Greg pinks up just a little, embarrassment tinting the rise of his cheeks and tips of his ears and John tilts his head, reining in his inclination to smirk at Greg’s obvious mortification at his admission that he could pass for eighteen when he was twenty-three.

They are both silent for a long moment and John is aware that he might be staring a little too long, holding Greg’s gaze in a way that might just be construed as a little too meaningful, but he can’t quite help himself because it really doesn’t take much in the way of imagination for him to see the shadow of a beautiful sloe-eyed boy in the man sitting opposite him.

“Christ, you must have been something to look at.” For all that it’s not very tactful, it is at least honest and John does a pretty good job of not flinching at his own candour, hoping to god that the faint flush of embarrassment he can feel on his face isn’t visible, but Greg just laughs.

“Fuck, yeah, I s’pose.” He tilts back the last of the ESB and waggles the can at John, a hint that he wants another one, and he keeps talking as John walks into the kitchen and separates a can of London Pride from its companions on the table. “If you’re into ripped jeans, doc martens, an _Angelic Upstarts_ t-shirt and a lot of eyeliner, that is.”

John hands over the can and goes back to his seat, realising that he’s on the verge of admitting that he thinks that actually wouldn’t be a bad look on a 47-year old DI, never mind a young DC passing for a rent-boy. But the pop of the ring-pull stalls the thought and he lets Greg continue with the story.

“So, we had a suspect, some well-connected tosser in the FCO, Greville Henshaw. Still remember his name.” He pauses for a quick taste of beer, and John’s very aware that Greg’s deliberately not looking at him. The set of his jaw and the barely perceptible tremor in the hand that’s holding the beer can suggesting that whatever he’s witnessed today has shaken him deeply, the fresh pain giving new life to memories that he probably thought he’d dealt with years ago, and John wonders again if he should end this conversation, distract him with talk of football, or put the rugby on.

But then Greg shakes himself, and goes on.

“He was throwing parties at his place on Blackheath.” Now Greg does look up and meet John’s eyes “Very _private_ parties, not the kind you or I would ever be invited to.” He looks back at his beer, rubbing his thumb up and down the cool aluminium can. “Lots of booze, cocaine, smack, underage kids; girls, boys, do whatever you like to them, no questions asked. Private doctor on call to clean up the mess.”

Containing another wince, John tries not to think about the kind of abuse that is implied in Greg’s terse, quiet sentences. Tries not to think about what he’d had to do to maintain his cover, tempted to ask but deflecting instead with a safer question. “You had back-up, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Greg rubs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, we had two other DCs and my DS infiltrated into the catering team. They were confined to the kitchen and downstairs public areas, but at least they were close by when I needed them.”

Greg’s still staring at his beer can, resolutely refusing to meet John’s gaze as he goes on in a quiet monotone.

“So, anyway, we were picked up from a rendezvous point in Deptford. Four blokes and a couple of girls, youngest was probably 15 and I was the oldest by _fuck_ maybe four years, not that they knew that. Flash black car took us up to Blackheath…” He breaks off with a wry smile, lightening the mood for a moment, “…yeah, car was just like Mycroft’s, well an ‘80s version of it.” And John gives him a chuff of a laugh in return.

But then the smile vanishes and Greg carries on, one hand at the back of his neck, absently kneading the muscles as he speaks. “They got us cleaned up a little, not too much, had to keep us _interesting_ for the ones that liked a bit of rough and then gave everyone a can of cider and a couple of pills – little white bastards – found out later they were a custom-made low-dose ketamine derivative.”

“Jesus…” John’s trying not to interrupt, sensing that it’s probably easier for Greg to tell this story in his own way, without having to respond to John’s interjections – but he’s appalled at the suggestion of someone casually administering ketamine, even at low doses, to teenagers “…they were using it to control the kids?” He knows that with the right dosage, the dissociative effect of the ketamine would keep a person docile as they were abused.

Greg nods grimly, “Yeah, although it took me a while to figure out what was really going on. But I was smart enough to drink the cider and fake the pills so I was still clear as a bell when everyone was divvied up among the guests.” He stalls for a moment, silent and pensive as he takes another slow sip from the beer can and then looks up at John briefly, just the barest hint of distress in his eyes as he sets his jaw and forces himself to continue.

“I had orders from Bailey to wait until Henshaw did something illegal with a kid. A lot of the guests had diplomatic immunity anyway, and Bailey was determined Henshaw himself was going to go down. So I had to wait, keep my cover, play along.”

“Do I even want to know what you had to do to keep your cover?” John’s pretty sure he already knows, but this might be one of those cases where what he imagines is worse than the reality, so he goes ahead and asks the question.

Greg looks up at him, a flare of anger tinged with shame in his eyes and he flashes a tight, brittle smile that makes John feel just a little sick at the certain knowledge of what’s coming. “Nothing I hadn’t done for fun out the back of a club on a Saturday night.”

“Fuck.” John takes a breath and closes his eyes for a long moment, torn between his realisation that the reality was every bit as bad as anything his imagination could have conjured, even as he’s trying to push aside the sudden, vivid image of a young Greg on his knees, hair twisted tight in an anonymous hand as he uses that perfect mouth on some stranger’s prick. When he looks up again, he finds Greg watching him with a kind of guarded diffidence and he realises that Greg thinks John is judging him, that the horror on his face is at what Greg has done, not what was done to him.

“No, no…Jesus no…. Christ, Greg…that was just _wrong_. Your fucking DCI should never have allowed it to go that far.”

Greg shrugs, and sets his beer can down on the floor next to his chair. “Needs must, sunshine, needs must…anyway, it worked.” And John’s amazed at the pragmatic shrewdness in his voice as he candidly admits, “About five minutes after I sucked off a Kuwaiti trade attaché Henshaw disappeared upstairs with a couple of kids. I excused myself to the toilet and called in the cavalry. They found him dick-deep in a 16-year old runaway from Kettering.”

“He got sent down?”

“Oh Jesus, yeah. The procuring, the drugs and the underage buggery would have been enough to put him away, but they kept fucking up the ketamine dosage and that was why kids were disappearing. The team found the bodies in an abandoned office building on Copperass Street, near the river. Didn’t matter how well connected he was, three convictions for murder sent him to the Scrubs for life, I don’t doubt he’s still there now.”

As he’d been talking Greg had leaned forward, elbows on his knees and now that he’s almost done he curls forward a little further and leans his forehead on bunched fists, his voice hostile and angry as he finishes. “But it doesn’t make any fucking _difference_ , does it? Because for every one of the bastards we put away, there’s a dozen more like the fuckers we’re tracking down right now.” He rocks forward slightly before finally sinking back into the chair in a tense slump, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, working them over the crown of his head until those strong hands are kneading at the muscles of his neck again.

It’s not clear to John whether Greg is really in pain, or if the action is just a way of distracting himself from John’s reaction to the story. Not really sure what to say – but certain that silent inaction would be beyond unkind - John moves without really thinking. He pushes himself out of his chair and goes to sit on the solid leather arm of the one Greg’s occupying, laying a hand lightly on his shoulder, feeling the muscles tense under the soft cotton of the rugby shirt. He squeezes gently and Greg tilts his head to meet his gaze, eyes dark with bitter futility.

“What fucking good are we, John? What good? Today I spent eleven hours watching four grown men beat and rape a bunch of terrified teenagers that passed through some kind of sick processing facility that they run out of a warehouse in Southwark. We’ll catch those four, but it was really, really clear from watching those files that this is just the tip of a filthy fucking iceberg that runs deep under this city and we are _never_ going to shut it down.”

He’s right. John has seen far too much of the world to have any doubt that Greg is right; human trafficking and all its attendant abuses have been going on for as long as humans have lived in organized societies and all the best efforts of New Scotland Yard won’t shut it down. But that doesn't mean what Greg does is futile and John strokes his hand firmly across the broad, tight muscles of Greg’s shoulder as he offers the one philosophical thought that had kept him going through almost ten years of patching up torn and bloodied soldiers, some of them barely old enough to drink, or vote, or even shave.

“Don’t know where I heard this, might have been Mum and Dad’s neighbour, Mr Gould, he was a rabbi, but it’s always helped.” John pauses for a moment and, when Greg leans forward and rests his forehead against his arm, John dares to brush his cheek lightly over the still damp hair as he quotes quietly, “And whoever saves one life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.” He pauses for a second, can feel Greg’s scepticism in the tense set of his shoulders and carries on, “Even if I don’t believe anything else, Greg I do believe that. I believe we make a difference.”

There’s a long moment of silence that’s only broken when Greg sighs, a deep, slow exhale and John can feel the tension leaching away as the warm body leans into him. He tries not to think about just how nice it is to feel that solid heat against his arm, the damp warmth of Greg’s breath against his skin as he lets his head rest against John’s shoulder, the low vibration of his voice as he admits quietly, “Dunno if that helps, but I get what you’re trying to say.”

“Yeah? You can’t save everyone Greg, but every single person that you _can_ save is important; every kid you pull off the streets; every potential victim that lives because you catch the guy who’s violence is escalating; every family that gets justice because you found whoever killed their wife, their son, their gran.”

“Yeah, yeah I know.” Greg shifts just enough that he can look up at John, his perch on the arm of the chair giving John a rare height advantage. “I just can’t always see it when we’ve had a day like this one.”

“Yeah, I’ve had days like that too.” He’s rubbing a hand up and down Greg’s arm and John knows he should move, go back to his own chair and turn on the rugby, distract them from this potentially dangerous path that they seem to be intent on pursuing. Greg is still in the middle of an ugly divorce, and while he doesn’t seem particularly hurt by the disintegration of a marriage that’s clearly been on its last legs for a couple of years, he’s still angry and humiliated by Alison’s betrayal, and there’s a small voice in the back of John’s head suggesting that if he wants something more than a quick shag this might not be the best time to fall into bed together. But the voice is very small, and surprisingly easily quelled, and he can’t quite stop himself from sliding his hand up the back of Greg’s neck and across the top of his head, fingers stroking through the damp, untidy hair.

“Were you alright? Afterwards?”

He gets a wry smile in return, the shadow gone from Greg’s eyes, his customary confidence reasserting itself as he shrugs. “Yeah, it wasn’t fun, my DS found me throwing up in the bog, but he thought it was the ketamine, no one ever knew what I’d done. I was fucking terrified that it would come out in evidence, if Henshaw had told his brief, they might have tried for entrapment, but he never did and then it was over and I don’t really think about it much, not until we have a case like this.”

John’s still carding his fingers through Greg’s hair, it’s thick and soft and feels like silk and John realises that he’s been wanting to do this for a very long time. He’s still not entirely sure that he _should_ , at least not tonight while Greg is still so unsettled by this case, but whatever misgivings he might have are rapidly being crushed by the quiet, insistent thrum of desire that’s sounding like a bass-note in his blood; driven by the heat and scent and close press of solid muscle that is Greg – open, warm, slightly vulnerable and utterly fucking _mesmerizing_.

There’s just a hint of knowing candour in the dark eyes that are watching John so intently, just enough to make John understand that as raw as Greg is from his too-awful day, he’s very, very aware of what he’s doing right now, and it’s enough for John to take a chance, his heart in his throat as he asks, “What are we doing?”

“Something I won’t regret in the morning.” There’s a confident certainty in Greg’s face, his gaze never faltering and John’s grateful for that, after the evening’s conversation he’s a little afraid that this is Greg’s way of pushing the memories away. “Why? Will you?” 

“Me, no, what? No, Jesus, no.” Nice John, even less coherent than usual although he can hardly blame himself for feeling a fraction distracted, this was not where he had thought the evening would end up. 

Still Greg makes no move to close the distance between them and John can feel the tension radiating off him, his eyes so dark it’s almost impossible to discern the margin between iris and pupil. For a moment John is confused at Greg’s stillness and then he figures out what might be going on. 

“How long?” 

Greg stops chewing on his lower lip and gifts John with a slightly sardonic smile. “How long do you think? I wasn’t the one playing away.” 

John shakes his head and lets his thumb come to rest on the narrow curve of Greg’s mouth, brushing gently across the deep pink, bite-swollen flesh. His cock jumps at the brief, playful hint of a slick, wet tongue – just a flicker of it against the skin – a tease and a promise all in one fleeting touch. 

“Twenty years?” John moves his hand, letting the back of his fingers smooth up across Greg’s cheek, feeling a couple of rough patches that speak to several days of shaving at his desk with that god-awful electric razor that he keeps in the bottom drawer. It really has been a fucking dreadful week for him. 

“Yeah, and the rest.” Greg has slumped a little, his head resting on the back of the chair and John thinks he’s looking remarkably serene for a man who’s about to have sex with someone new, for the first time in over two decades. Not sure whether he’s inspired or intimidated by that thought, John settles for distraction, leaning in slowly, giving Greg time to stop this, to pull away if he wants to. But he’s met with a slow smile that reminds him of all the reasons he’s been attracted to this man almost from their first meeting. 

Encouraged he leans in a little further, hands braced on the leather arms of the chair, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from Greg, can smell the incongruous mix of cheap Radox and very expensive Jo Malone and then Greg’s fingers are wrapped in the thick wool of John’s jumper and he lets himself be drawn down slowly, closing his eyes and tilting his head at the last minute before they meet in a long, slow, obscenely _hotwetfilthy_ kiss. The first confident flick of Greg’s tongue against his lips sends a spasm of lust skewering down through John’s chest to settle in his groin and the fresh rush of blood to his cock makes him whimper quietly against Greg’s mouth. 

The kiss lingers long enough that John is squirming by the time Greg releases his hold on the front of his jumper, and he has to shift to relieve the pressure on his cock as it presses against the fly of his jeans. With a soft exhale John grins, “Just a sec,” and then shifts to straddle Greg’s knees tilting forward until Greg reaches to steady him as he leans in for another kiss and slowly lowers himself into the chair. 

Sometimes it’s very handy being John’s height and build, especially when you’re trying to share an armchair with another full-grown human and John manages to press his knees into the tight space between Greg’s thighs and the arms of the chair as he settles his weight onto the broad frame beneath him, tugging the borrowed rugby shirt up just far enough to slide his hands onto the furred warmth of Greg’s stomach. He grins again at the sudden shiver and intake of breath that greets his slightly tentative exploration, and lets his fingers slide over softly yielding flesh, reading all the stresses of the last few months in that thin layer of padding over the core of firm muscle. Long hours and late nights, too much stress and take-away, too many nights in the pub and far too little exercise in the wake of the even less congenial than usual English winter weather. 

“What do you want?” 

“Hell’s teeth, John, the nearest I’ve got to sex in the last eighteen months is the occasional wank in the shower; just fucking _touch_ me and I’ll be happy.” 

John laughs and leans closer, fingers stroking over velvet-warm skin and pushing up until he can brush his fingertips through the light cover of hair in the center of Greg’s chest. He can _feel_ the need radiating off Greg and it’s the most intoxicating sensation he can imagine, nothing but raw, unrestrained want and John looks up for a moment, his heart hammering, palm flat against Greg’s chest as he feels the answering thunder that speaks of lust and adrenaline and the urgent desire for the mindless intoxication of skin and sweat and sex. He grinds down into Greg’s lap, feeling the length of him, already half-hard under the thin layer of flannelette and he can’t resist the temptation to slide his free hand down into the space between their bodies, brushing his fingers against the clothed heat in a tease that draws a sharp, breathy sound out of Greg. 

Gratified by the need that’s evident in the way Greg twists under him, hips hitching up in a hurried, greedy rhythm, John grins as he asks, “Can you come again, if I get you off right now, can you come again later?” 

Greg shakes his head, laughing, “I have no idea. Do you have any clue how long it’s been since anyone has wanted me to come twice in one night?” 

“A while?” 

“A fucking decade or more.” But the humour in Greg’s voice and the light in his eyes sets John’s heart racing in a whole different way than the heady rush of imminent fucking. However badly this week has gone, however hard today was for Greg, John has the power, _right now_ to make it better; to make him forget, at least for a while; and perhaps to give him enough peace to sleep soundly tonight, and to wake in the morning with just a little of his customary emotional resilience restored. 

He grins, anticipation shivering through him as he begins to slide slowly off Greg’s lap and onto the floor. The quizzical look he gets in return lasts only until John settles himself on his knees and slides his hands up the firm heat of Greg’s thighs. And then Greg figures it out, and his eyes go wide, astonished and eager all at once as his hips press up against John’s hands. 

“Patience.” John’s enjoying the teasing, enjoying the feel of solid muscle under his palms, the heat under the thin flannel of the pyjama bottoms, and the unmistakable shift of cloth across Greg’s groin as his cock thickens and fills. 

“Patience my fucking arse.” Greg pauses for a moment, his breath hitching in anticipation, his eyes so dark with need that John feels light-headed with the power of it. He wants to prolong this, savour the anticipation, but then the sound of his name, drawn out in a low growl of a whisper, “Please, John, _please_ ” breaks his resolve and John leans up, fingers deft on the drawstring of the pyjamas. 

Freed from the flannel Greg’s cock lies flat against his belly, a dark flushed red, twitching with each breath and John keeps his gaze fixed on Greg’s face as he slowly and deliberately swipes the entire length with the flat of his tongue. 

“Oh fuck, yeah. Do that again.” His back arches, arse coming up off the chair cushion just enough for John to tug the pyjama bottoms down a little further and then Greg curses and, with a reluctant whine, curls his fingers into John’s hair and tugs his head up. 

“Damn John, you’re the doctor. Condom?” 

John shrugs, “Yeah, condom when I fuck you.” And he can’t help but grin at the look of stupefied want on Greg’s face as _that_ thought penetrates his lust-addled brain, his whine of need barely contained by the way he’s biting down hard on his lower lip. 

“But not right now.” If there is one thing John’s sure of, it’s that Greg never strayed – not even once – in his twenty-three years with Alison, and as there’s been no-one since, he’s really not worried that Greg’s harbouring anything that would make a blow-job hazardous to his own health. 

“You’re alright, really.” And John reinforces the thought with another long, slow swipe of his tongue up Greg’s length, lingering for a long moment at the crease where the damp, smooth curve of his glans is emerging from the foreskin. The noise that shudders out of Greg is all the encouragement John needs and he relaxes into the familiar – if not recently practiced – slide and suck of giving head. There’s a moment of tension when he feels strong fingers curl into his hair again, but the touch is gentle, with no expectation of control and John goes back to wringing low, filthy moans out of Greg as he presses his tongue against the pliant soft spot just under the corona. 

John’s not entirely surprised that he brings Greg to the edge far more quickly than he would have liked; given the length of his apparent dry spell, John’s actually impressed by his forbearance, but then that’s always been Greg’s strong point. Still he hasn’t had nearly enough time to explore, to learn all the trigger spots that make Greg whine and shudder and use the kind of language that John generally only hears from him at crime scenes. Not enough time to get his fill of the smell and taste of him, the raw heat and power of his arousal, so utterly masculine, so very different – no better or worse, in John’s opinion, but _very_ different – than a woman’s. He could prolong it, pull off and bring him back from the edge, make it last a little longer, but that strikes him as a little mean-spirited, and unnecessary given that there’s going to be a second round in the near future. And so, surprising himself with how easily this has come back to him, John seals his mouth around Greg’s prick and takes him as deep as he can, pausing for just a fraction of a second before he swallows once and then a second time as Greg’s entire body shudders under him. 

A third swallow and John feels a sharp tug in his hair, a warning quickly followed by a stuttered, “Jesus, John, now…oh _Jesus-bleeding-Christ_ …coming _now_ ,” and while he’d usually be quite happy to let Greg come down his throat, he pulls away this first time to watch. Torn between the mesmerizing sight of Greg’s cock, twitching hard as it releases fat, translucent arcs of come that spatter into the fine curls that cover his abdomen, and the equally stunning vision of Greg lost in orgasm, the long line of his throat exposed as he arches, eyes closed and lips parted as a rough, low moan rolls out from deep in his chest. It might be the most erotic thing John’s ever seen, certainly it’s top of the list for the last few years, and he tries to ignore his own thrumming erection as he gently kneads the twitching muscles in Greg’s thighs. 

“Oh, that was fucking _good_.” Greg finally tilts his head forward and gifts John with a slow, sated smile and John knows his own grin is just a little smug as he reaches up and swipes a finger through the mess on Greg’s belly. 

“Yeah? You think you’re going to be able to do it again?” He offers up the come-smeared finger and Greg leans forward, wrapping his tongue around it in a lascivious tease, sucking hard on the finger for a moment before releasing it with a slightly obscene flick of his tongue. 

“Depends how patient you are, give me an hour and yeah, I can probably do that again.” He gives a filthy half-laugh as he tugs John back up onto his lap, sliding a hand down to cup the substantial bulge that’s pressing against John’s fly. “Think you can last that long?” 

John laughs and leans into the touch. “That a challenge?” His heart rate is accelerating at the pressure of that warm, competent hand but he’s got the advantage of having had sex a lot more recently than Greg, and, as eager as he is to fuck himself into sweat-soaked oblivion buried deep in the slippery, tight heat of another body, he knows that it’ll be all the sweeter if he can bring Greg along with him. 

“Nah, more like a promise.” Greg’s pulling him closer, and John shivers at the feel of a broad hand wrapped around the back of his neck, drawing him down into a long, sweet, lazy kiss. _Fuck_ Greg’s good at this, the slick, wet, heat of his mouth, the agile flick of his tongue alongside John’s making both of them shiver and John thinks that between the strong, capable hand pressing against his crotch and the silky slide of that clever tongue he might just come right here in Sherlock’s chair. He grinds down, beginning to lose control, rutting into the hollow of Greg’s pelvis, whining into his mouth, as the kiss turns from teasing to filthy. 

“Oh no…not yet, gorgeous.” Greg pulls away with a low chuckle and John groans, leaning in to try to recapture his mouth, but Greg rests his head against the back of the chair, staying out of reach. 

“Come on, let’s take this to the bedroom, before you come in my lap.” 

And John laughs, “Yeah, and before Sherlock comes home and has a stroke because we’re having sex in his chair.” 

**** 

John kicks the door to his bedroom shut as he crowds a laughing Greg towards the neatly made bed, neither of them exactly graceful as they try to walk and struggle out of their clothes at the same time. John’s still in jeans and a t-shirt by the time Greg throws himself down across the duvet in a naked, wanton invitation and the sight of it makes John’s mouth go dry, and his fingers fumble at the button on his jeans as he takes a moment to appreciate his good fortune. Christ, but Greg is stunning, graced with a little more weight than he probably carried in his prime, he’s nonetheless a powerfully athletic figure, strong and well-muscled, his skin just a shade darker than the customary English mid-winter pallor, dusted with dark hair that’s only just going to grey in the centre of his chest. And when he smiles, oh _fuck_ when he smiles, it’s glorious. 

“C’mon sunshine, I’ve been looking forward to this for a while.” 

“You what?.... _Really_?” John is momentarily stunned that this is something that they’ve _both_ apparently been thinking about in some detail and then the warm affirmation of that thought washes through him and he grins as Greg laughs. 

“Yeah, really.” And he beckons John down to join him on the mattress. “C’m’ere…you sounded pretty bloody confident about being the one to do the fucking. So let’s see what you’ve got.” 

John would be intimidated as all fuck by that challenge, if Greg wasn’t grinning while he issued it, his eyes bright with humour and lust and a mischievous anticipation, and he manages to slide up the bed while shedding jeans and pants in one accomplished wriggle and then retrieve lube and the strip of condoms from the drawer in his bedside table. When John finally pauses to catch his breath, desperately trying to ignore the way the pulse is thrumming through his cock as it rests against Greg’s thigh, he looks down, captivated by the trust in those dark, dark eyes and experiences a moment of sudden, unwelcome, hesitation. 

“Are you okay with this? I mean, it’s been a long time, right?” 

Greg laughs, a rich, slightly sarcastic sound and props himself up on his elbows to grin at John. 

“I don’t know whether to pity you or envy you, mate.” 

“What? Why?” John tugs one of the foil wrapped squares free of the strip of condoms and frowns, thoroughly confused by Greg’s slightly mocking good humour. 

Greg laughs again, “You’ve obviously never been with anyone long enough for the sex to get boring.” 

“Oh…” John has a sudden epiphany that gives him a mental image he’s not sure he wants, and he stutters slightly, “You and… Alison… you….? No, don’t answer that.” He grimaces and finishes the thought, “...and I’m not going to think about it…” 

Greg just laughs again and reaches to pluck the bottle of lube from John’s hand, squeezing a generous measure onto his fingers and then reaching down, out of John’s line of sight to do something that makes his body twist and shudder. The way he bites his lip, head arching back as his eyes slide closed leaves John in no doubt about what he’s doing and the thought of it sends a wash of heat through him, his cock suddenly aching as he rubs it involuntarily against the furred heat of Greg’s leg. 

It takes a supreme effort of will for John to reach out and still Greg’s movements, taking back the lube and laying both it and the condom on the far side of the bed. 

The look he gets in response is surprised for only a second, softening almost immediately to slightly amused understanding. “What? You not going to last if I keep doing that?” 

“No, I won’t.” John twists a little so that he’s lying half-sprawled across Greg, cock nestled in the valley between thigh and torso and he pushes himself up on his arms to lean over the smirking figure in the bed. “And anyway, when it comes to it, _I’m_ going to be the one to do that…right? _I’m_ going to be the one to open you, to feel…” and John hesitates, his voice stuttering with need, “…to feel how unbelievably fucking tight you are.” There’s more he wants to say but the words desert him, captivated by the way Greg’s looking at him; the smirk gone, now he’s focused and hungry and flushed with want. John can’t remember the last time anyone looked at him with this kind of fierce desire, the last time anyone _wanted_ him like this and it’s an incredibly powerful feeling. 

Breathing deeply he drops his head forward until he can place a long, soft kiss on Greg’s sternum and he whispers against the skin. “Slowly, please, slowly.” And there’s an edge of slightly hysterical laughter in his voice as he goes on, “I really don’t want to humiliate myself by coming like a fucking fifteen-year old before I’m even in you.” 

There’s a rumble of laughter beneath him and then John feels the light touch of fingers in his hair and Greg’s tugging gently, coaxing him closer for a kiss as he whispers. “Shhh…shhh…come here.” 

To John’s surprise the slow, soft kisses distract him enough to take the edge off his desperate need to come _right this minute_ and, control regained, he begins the exquisitely slow process of taking Greg apart with his hands and mouth. Fingers, lips and tongue and teeth all employed to wring as much pleasure as either of them can stand from the broad, sturdy body that is sprawled across his bed. 

Now, _now_ John gets to learn all the places that make Greg whine and whimper and stutter out soft, filthy words of surprised appreciation. Attention to the nape of his neck, to the soft hollow beneath the hinge of his jaw, to the dimpled curve in the small of his back and the sensitive skin in the dip of his pelvis calling forth a low, obscene, stream-of-consciousness litany of need and gratitude. But it’s John’s slow, tender torture of those beautiful, flat, dark nipples that gets Greg hard again, the flicker of a slick agile tongue behind the sharp tease of teeth, and then long, slow soothing suckles that bring Greg arching up off the mattress as John curves a hand around the thickening length of his cock and sighs with relief that they’re both finally ready. 

He retrieves the lube, taking his time, revelling in the sensation of exquisitely tight heat as he strokes his fingers – one, two and then a third – past the flexing rings of muscle, relieved at Greg’s obvious relaxed familiarity with being opened and stretched. His own cock beginning to thrum in time with his pulse, John watches impatiently as Greg stretches back and wraps one hand around the slats of the headboard, using the additional leverage to bear down and John retaliates with a twist, stroking across the firm swell of Greg’s prostate for the first time. The touch brings Greg off the sheet in a reflexive spasm, his voice a breathless gasp as he groans, “Jesus, I knew you’d be good at that.” 

“Doctor – got to be good for something.” John’s getting a little incoherent himself, and it’s almost a relief to pull away for a moment to roll the condom down his length, the latex serving to deaden the _sweetsharp_ ache of his own touch as he carefully slicks himself. 

Settled between Greg’s spread thighs the anticipation is shuddering through him as John pauses, hand stroking gently across Greg’s belly, and seeks one final assurance. “You want it like this?” 

It’s not ideal, especially not the angle, not when both of them are a little out of practice, but John understands the appeal of it; like this, face to face this first time and he’s not surprised when Greg just nods sharply, almost past words as he reaches for John’s hand and kisses the palm, whispering, “Do it, now John, please.” 

It’s all the permission he needs and with more patience than he ever thought he could muster, John slowly, ever so slowly, presses into the excruciatingly tight furnace that is Greg’s body. It’s so good, so un-fucking-believably good, that John almost loses it in that first exquisite slide, only kept from the precipice by the painful grip of Greg’s hand wrapped in his. 

There’s no real possibility that John’s going to be able to make this last, he’s been on the edge for too long tonight and as he sinks deep a second and then a third time his only concern is to try to set a rhythm that’s deep and steady without being punishingly fast. Trying to be controlled enough that he can angle each stretching shove of his cock to nail Greg’s prostate on every thrust; trying to milk every ounce of pleasure out of something that’s going to be over far too fast. 

Encouraged by Greg’s constant, if slightly incoherent – and utterly filthy – monologue, John picks up his speed, sitting up a little straighter so that he can snap his hips hard and wrapping his hand around Greg’s cock to match the rhythm of his thrusts in the hope that they’ll come at approximately the same time. And he can feel the slow shiver of sensation in the pit of his stomach, the escalating tension that winds tighter and tighter with each swift slide of flesh in flesh.

“Christ yes…fuck…good…fuck, John, so fucking good at this.” The shivering strain in Greg’s voice makes John ache, the low, rough sound of it, the words and sentences breaking apart as the pleasure begins to overwhelm them both. 

“Ohhh…Jesus…yes… _now_.” With a last breathless shout Greg is lost and John watches him arch and shudder, ecstatically oblivious, for the second time in as many hours. And then John’s following, sinking himself one last time as Greg’s body flexes and contracts around his deeply buried cock. With a shudder he leans in to rest his forehead on a sweaty shoulder as every muscle spasms and the blood rushes in his ears – orgasm roaring through him like a tsunami, tumbling him in the undertow until he’s spent and lax and sprawled across the broad frame that’s breathing hard beneath him. 

Neither of them is young enough for an immediate recovery, but eventually John stirs, aware that he’s resting almost all of his weight on Greg, and rolls to the side, just cogent enough to rescue the condom and tie it off. 

“Alive?” he presses a kiss to Greg’s shoulder and gets a grunt in response. He gifts a second kiss, this one accompanied by a chuff of laughter and then slides off the bed to ditch the condom in the waste-paper bin under the window and retrieve a t-shirt from the corner where he piles his dirty washing. It’s a rudimentary clean-up at best, but John’s legs are barely functioning and, as far as he can tell, Greg’s still pretty much catatonic, so it’ll do. 

When he pulls the duvet up from the bottom of the bed and settles it around them both John finally feels Greg stir, sliding up behind him and wrapping an arm around his waist, lips pressed firmly to the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck as whispers, his voice thick with exhaustion.

“You, Doctor Watson, are fucking amazing.”

John squeezes the hand that’s resting on his stomach and grins, flushed with contented warmth. “You’re not so bad yourself, Detective Inspector.”

****

John wakes to the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs to his room and he groans, rolling up next to the solid warmth of Greg’s body on the other side of the bed, and _damn_ isn't that a nice thing to wake to in the pitch dark of a London January morning. And then the door to his room is opening and there’s a voice – _that_ particular voice – demanding his attention.

“John, are you awake?” The door bangs against the wall as Sherlock shoves it wide. “John, really, you’ve been asleep long enough. Time to get up. I _need_ your opinion on something.”

 _Fuck_ , John loves Sherlock, he really does; he’s the best, most sincere, oddly loyal and entertaining flatmate a man could wish for, but his timing and his ability to recognize, never mind respect, boundaries is sadly lacking. John shoves the duvet down and sits up, shivering in the chill air, and then blinks rapidly in the sudden brightness as Sherlock turns on the overhead light.

“Sherlock! Light, off, now!” There’s a part of John that hopes that the light gets turned back off fast enough that Sherlock doesn’t notice the other occupant of the bed, but even as he’s thinking it, John knows he’s kidding himself, Sherlock has almost certainly already constructed a blow-by-blow mental replay of the events of this evening just from the way Greg’s coat and jacket are hanging on chairs in the kitchen. 

“John, I know that’s Lestrade in your bed.”

“Brilliant, Sherlock – yes – it is. I’m pretty sure you don’t need me to tell you what he’s doing there.” John pauses for a second and then pre-empts Sherlock’s guaranteed first response. “Yes sleeping…and what we were doing before that is none of your business.” It’s a valiant effort, but futile nonetheless and even in the dark John can hear Sherlock’s rapid intake of breath, recognizes the exhilarating moment when that peerless brain puts together all the evidence, thinks through exactly what he observed downstairs and what it means, and comes up with the most likely explanation and John’s wincing even as he knows what’s coming.

“But that’s…he’s…John?” There is a brief pause while Sherlock does the unthinkable and actually has to gather his thoughts before he goes on “….he let you…?” 

And then John’s turning on the light on his bedside table and blinking in the glare as he shuts down the conversation with a tightly muttered “Sherlock!” and a look that threatens dire consequences if Sherlock finishes the sentence. He has no idea _how_ Sherlock knows that he fucked Greg, but it’s probably best for everyone’s mental health that he doesn’t voice the thought.

“I don’t need a run down of the events of last night, Sherlock. I was there.”

There’s another moment of silence as Sherlock glares at him, clearly processing something else that he observed in the living room and then his eyes go wide and John has no time to react before Sherlock is stuttering in irate disbelief, “You _fellated_ him in my _chair_!”

He shouldn’t laugh, he really shouldn’t, not least because he doesn’t want to wake Greg, but John can’t quite contain a slightly hysterical chuckle and he bites down hard on his lower lip until he’s calm again. 

“I don’t even want to know how you worked that out, Sherlock, but the chair will be fine, it’s leather. Now, what do you need? It’s the arse end of 7am.”

“It can wait.” There’s all the petulance of a thwarted five-year-old in Sherlock’s voice now and John rolls his eyes, he’s really not in the mood to deal with this. 

“Okay, so…can you shut the door behind you?” 

That generates a pout and a huff of annoyance. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t just stick to those insipid women you insist on pursuing.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I haven’t been pursuing _anyone_ recently – you’ve run them all off.” And then, lest Sherlock think that he’s taken to shagging Greg for want of any other options, John grins mischievously and explains. “Anyway, I like him. He’s clever and funny and a _good man_ …and a fucking fantastic shag.”

That gets the reaction John’s hoping for, that irritated look of distaste that Sherlock affects when he’s having to deal with _people_ and _emotions_ and _activities_ that he neither understands nor sees the purpose of. “I still don’t understand. Why now, why _him_?” There’s a hint of possession in Sherlock’s voice, as if he regards Lestrade as his personal policeman, which he probably does at some level, although John doesn't really care since he knows Sherlock doesn’t want Greg for the same things John wants him for. 

With a shake of his head John slides back under the duvet. He can understand that his flatmate – the man whose ability to understand of the chemistry of sex is rivalled only by his inability to understand the complex emotional intimacy that it generates – is a little bemused this apparent sudden sea-change in John and Greg’s friendship. And he can see the genuine irritation on Sherlock’s face; familiar enough with him by now to know that it’s generated less by finding John in bed with Lestrade and far more by his own failure to recognize – even after all these months of cohabitation – the flexibility of John’s sexual preferences. 

Still, he isn’t about to explain the niceties of his own bisexuality at this time in the morning. He knows Sherlock is aware of the general concept, months ago they’d been engaged in a post-case take-away binge when Sherlock had made some comment about the way Lestrade had assessed one of the new _male_ SOCOs at the crime-scene, which had resulted in a discussion of Greg’s track record of equal opportunity fucking in his pre-Alison days. John’s actually grateful for that conversation now, it’s the only thing that had made him recognize Greg’s flirting for what it was, and not just dismiss it as some figment of his imagination. But right now it’s seven in the morning, and he’s lying in bed, wrapped around 14 stone of warm, slightly furry and very sleepy Detective Inspector, and John would just as soon not be responsible for furthering Sherlock’s education in the ways of sexually adventurous middle-aged men without even the courtesy of being adequately caffeinated.

“Sherlock, just…” and he pauses to make sure that the next part comes out very gently, “…piss off mate, would you? We can talk about this later.”

Sherlock nods sharply, his eyes focused on everything except the bed and its occupants. “Yes, yes on my way back out anyway, got to find a fox jaw somewhere.” 

John doesn’t ask, it’s obviously case-related, or he hopes it is – with luck something to do with the mice in the fridge - and just settles himself a little more comfortably against Greg’s chest and smiles. “Thanks, mate. I could use a little more kip.”

Sherlock hesitates, his hand on the door handle and frowns a little as he starts to turn away. “He looks peaceful.” 

John shifts and props himself up on one elbow again to look down at Greg who does indeed look remarkably peaceful, if still utterly exhausted. He’s lying flat on his back with one arm flung above his head and by all rights, he should be snoring like a diesel engine, but all that’s coming out are occasional soft sighs, the sounds of a deep, contented sleep. 

“Hmm, sleeping like the dead.” John knows he’s giving away far too much; that Sherlock of all people is going to be able to read the deep and unexpected emotion in his face and his voice, as he touches his fingers gently to the curve of a silver-stubbled cheek. “He needs it, he’s worn out.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, suggesting that sexual innuendo might be about to become his new favourite hobby if John keeps feeding him lines like this one and John rolls his eyes. 

“The case you git, the case. Now piss off and let me sleep.”

John breathes out a contented sigh of his own when the door finally closes and goes back to resting his head on Greg’s chest, glad that he hadn’t stirred at all during Sherlock’s brief, but noisy, interruption. When he’d shown up last night, grey with exhaustion and heartsick at what he’d witnessed while processing all those hours of video evidence John had been worried that he’d never wind down enough for sleep, let alone this kind of deep, restful slumber. 

****

When John next wakes, there is natural light creeping around the edges of the heavy lined curtains and he realises that he’s waking to the sound of someone yawning and stretching next to him. Before he even has time to open his eyes, a broad hand curves around his jaw, turning his head just enough to draw him into a soft, warm, open good-morning kiss. 

“Hmm – nice.”

“Yeah?” Greg’s voice is lazy and it sounds like he’s still half asleep and _Oh god_ John is in trouble. If he thought Greg’s voice was sexy in bossy DI mode, it’s nothing to the turn-on that is gravelly-voiced, early morning Greg Lestrade.

“Oh yeah.” John buries his face in the curve of Greg’s neck, breathing in sweat and musk and just the faintest hint of beer and garlic and, finding none of that bad, he shivers as a fresh wave of arousal washes through him. “Nice enough I want to do it all over again.”

It’s Greg’s turn to laugh. “Hey, old man here, I’m not sure I can manage three times in...” He pauses and John leans up to look as they both turn towards the clock on the bedside table “…ten hours.”

“We could try.” John grins as he sits up and stretches, feeling the familiar morning twinge in his shoulder and rubbing at it absently.

“God, Sherlock’s rubbing off on you. I am not turning sex into an experiment.” Greg rolls onto his side, and props himself up on one elbow, and John trails a finger lightly through the soft hair in the centre of his chest. 

“Hmmm, pretty sure at some point he’s going to want to watch us. Just for reference purposes, of course.” 

“Not in this fucking lifetime.” There’s a pause and then Greg adds, in a much less aggrieved tone. “So this is going to be a regular thing, is it?”

John hesitates for a long, long moment, stomach knotting slightly when he rethinks what he’s just said and realises that he might have presumed too much. He’s a little surprised at just how much he really does want this to be something more than one night, even an on-going occasional shag would be acceptable, but he has the faint hope that combining the existing friendship that they've developed with the kind of outstanding sex that they pulled off last night, could be very, very mutually beneficial. 

As he gathers his courage and takes a deep, slow breath he’s pinned by Greg’s steady, even gaze, and John has absolutely no idea as to what’s going on behind those fathomless dark eyes. Greg’s trying, John’s sure, not to project what _he_ wants onto John’s response, which is wonderfully mature of him, but hellishly nerve-wracking, leaving John with the slightly nauseating sensation that he’s about to step off a cliff in to thin air as he holds Greg’s gaze and finally confesses.

“Yeah, you know…I think, yeah…this should be a regular thing. What about you?”

The grin he gets back is all the response he really needs, but the way Greg relaxes back onto the bed, letting go of the tension that John hadn’t even seen in him until it was no longer there, is the real measure of his answer.

“Oh yeah, I think we should make this a very _very_ regular thing.” He reaches out a hand and John leans in to the touch, loving the feel of strong fingers combing up through the short, fine hair at his nape. “Even if you weren’t the best shag I’ve had in years,” Greg tugs gently and John takes the hint, rolling up against the solid warmth of Greg’s chest, trailing his fingers through the soft dark hair on his belly, “…it’d be worth it just to fuck with Sherlock for a while.” 

The words are flippant, almost facetious, but the fondness in Greg’s expression, the utter sincerity in his eyes warms John from the inside out – the anticipation of what _might be_ sending a rare thrill of absolute contentment through him and he laughs, “Yeah, it would at that.” 

At ease now that the awkward part of the morning-after conversation is concluded, John casts an eye back to the clock and winces at the late hour.

“Are you off today?”

“Sort of, I’m on lates for the rest of the week. But I’ll have to go in early, I’ve got a meeting with a junior from the CPS RASSO unit at one – that serial rape case we closed last week.” Greg has his eyes closed and John can almost see the stress creeping back into him, tightening the lines around his eyes and creasing his brow.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to the centre of Greg’s chest. “Okay, that’s not for four hours yet. Come on, I’ll treat you to a full English at Speedys.” 

“Yeah? Black pudding an’ all?”

“Anything you want, you earned it last night.” John wriggles up the bed and grins at Greg who’s looking up at him now with laughter in his eyes. “And when you get off shift tonight, you can come back and earn another for tomorrow.”

And that gets him a long, slow, achingly tender kiss that lingers until both of them are breathless. When they finally break for air, Greg has his fingers curled tight in the hair at the base of John’s skull and there’s a heart-stopping intensity in his eyes as he holds John’s gaze and breathes out a sweetly earnest, “Christ, I think this might be the best idea either of us has had in years.”

_fin_


End file.
